


they've got you running through the night

by YeahBebeIAmAllThat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, I'm not good at writing love stuff, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Nothing really relationshippy happens, Pre-Relationship, Some vague sexual tension, Witches, kind of, not the fun kind, there is no porn only plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:54:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YeahBebeIAmAllThat/pseuds/YeahBebeIAmAllThat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Stiles knows some mumbo-jumbo but doesn't know the pack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they've got you running through the night

**Author's Note:**

> This plot bunny would not leave my head! More of a Universe Alteration than an Alternate Universe, but Stiles has no previous relationship with the pack. Un-beta'd so be kind!

It’s creepily silent. The shadows cast by the moon give Stiles a foreboding feeling, and goose bumps chill across his neck. Real danger never made him feel this creeped out, so it probably had more to do with playing too much Slenderman than any actual monsters lurking in the woods. Better safe than eaten, though, and Stiles slips through the trees with every bit of stealth he possessed. He wishes this whole creeping through the woods at at god-knows-what-time was new for him, but it really wasn't. This was probably one of the least surprising things that has happened in the last week.

He’d only been in town for two days, having flown in as soon as he realized his Dad’s little missing persons issue was less than normal. Six reports of regular people walking into the woods wearing their PJ’s, and just not coming back. No signs of struggle, and a witness statement saying Mrs. Kelly looked like she was out for a midnight stroll. The whole situation stank of witches, and not the sweet eat-more-patchouli-cookies-you’re-much-too-skinny grandmother-ly type he’d met in Wisconsin. More like the nasty, I’ll-tear-your-heart-out-as-a-sacrifice-for-demonic-power type. He’d eat his own socks if his Dad got caught in the middle of a supernatural shit storm without even knowing what he was dealing with. Or at all really. Not if Stiles had anything to say about it (and Stiles always has something to say).

He finally reached the last place Mrs. Kelly had been seen, only a few metres away from her backyard, in the woods behind her house. Stiles carefully kept himself from straying in the neighbor’s line of view as he examined the area. He could see the path she’d taken, a couple broken twigs and crushed leaves leading to a sudden stop in the middle of a small clearing. He cast about for any visible explanation, but expected nothing. Magic did leave physical traces often, but usually where the spell was cast, and the whole area had already been searched by his Dad’s deputies. Stiles had something else he could do. He set up the candles and places Mrs. Kelly’s picture in the arrangement, along with a necklace he’d swiped from her house. He carefully circles the area with mountain ash, the mystical go-to for any kind of barrier, stepping inside.

He settles in front of the set-up, facing South. He relaxes his muscles, one group at a time, and concentrates on his breathing. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know the candles are lit. Stiles raises his hand over the picture and necklace, holding his phone open on Google Earth. Stiles loved mixing magic and modern technology, it was a thing. Also, using a compass? Not helpful.

He refocused his thoughts, picturing Mrs. Kelly in his mind. Softly, so softly he chants to the wind, complimenting it in various ways until he feels it breathing towards him. He forces it to swirl over the picture and necklace, whispering about lost things and how rude it is to steal, finding himself rhyming unintentionally. He can never tell if that’s the magic or his own special brand of ridiculousness. He feels the wind spiraling rapidly, increasing in intensity. He feels his clothes rustling and the fire licking his hands. Faster and faster, until suddenly there’s a flash of a picture of an intricate pentagram in his mind, and everything stops. The candles out, the clearing dead silent once again.

Stiles grins unabashedly and doesn’t care, because there’s a tag blinking at him from his phone screen, and the picture in his mind is still clear. It was more than he’d asked for, even. It takes all his self-restraint to resist a dorkish fist-pump, because he’s mature now and can withhold his enthusiasm.

“ _Yes! ”_ he whisper shouts and flails a little, because maturity is boring.

 

* * *

 

His theory so far is the witches are in need of some sort of collateral for the summoning spell they’re trying to cast. According to the pentagram, they were going to steal a massive amount of power from some kind of source. He’d managed to do a subtle recon of the warehouse district where Mrs. Kelly was, and the air had been charged with magic.

Stiles stared at his bulletin board, full of information on the case, locations of disappearance, recent living areas and the current whereabouts of Mrs. Kelly. He had basic news clippings containing information on each victim pinned up. He’d come to the conclusion that less prevalent members of society had been targeted. Mrs. Kelly was an eccentric that the neighbors had never been entirely fond of. Each other victim was a similar case, people no one was too concerned with helping. The pentagram was intricately sketched and pinned in the corner. According to the symbols along the edge, all the witches needed to work their spell was a source and an intimate tie to it. It had to be very intimate though, as in direct contact. The source had to be placed within the pentagram with draining symbols written in its blood on it. Stiles had no clue how they intended to pull that one off. After all, if the source is powerful enough to steal power from, then its powerful enough to have a decent defense against dark magic. And it _was_ dark. The spell was designed to sap life force. The more they took the weaker the source would be, until they kind just withered away. Stiles shuddered, flashbacks of his mom flickering behind his eyes. A terrible way to die.

Stiles huffed, frustrated. He was missing something. Or several somethings. What _was_ the source? All signs pointed to it being something living. Still, how could essentially random citizens help attain this unknown power? None of them had any supernatural ties. Stiles had triple-checked. The witches hadn’t even moved the victims, according to the cameras Stiles had set up nearby. There was no sign of needing any kind of sacrifice on the pentagram. All the witches had really succeeded in doing was drawing attention from the authorities.

…and his own attention. Maybe the attention of the unknown power as well? _Bait._ They were using the citizens as _bait._ Something about that felt right. The victims had happened within weeks of each other, consistently. It had been a little too easy to find the whereabouts of what Stiles suspected was an entire coven of power-hungry witches. They would keep up the kidnapping, making it perplexing for the authorities, but obvious to anyone in the supernatural know. Stiles grinned with the satisfaction of pulling apart a particularly tricky problem. The witches were trying to catch someone’s eyes.

Now for the million dollar question…

 _Who’s_?

 

* * *

 

In the end, Stiles figures it out completely by accident. He’s grocery shopping, debating between some random granola cereal or Reese Puffs. On one hand, healthy nutritional breakfast that lowers cholesterol. On the other, well… _Reese Puffs._ It’s safe to say he’s already been standing there for a while when he gets distracted by one very growly voice. His instincts tell him to get the fuck away from it, so naturally he goes to investigate. Stiles knows he has pretty much no social subtlety skills at all, so instead of peaking around the corner of the aisle like he really wants to do, he settles for pretending to need… feminine hygiene products. Fantastic. Luckily his temporary stalk-ees are ignoring him completely. Stiles can see the back of Mr. Growl’s head and some guy that he’s talking to.

“But they keep _disappearing._ We have to do _something!_ ” Stiles tries not to stare. That guy looked really familiar.

“ _We are_ doing something. We’re just not doing anything _stupid._ It might be a trap.” Stiles had to give props to Mr. Growl. It _was_ a trap.

“Yeah, but-” Stiles started. Now he recognized him. That was Scott! Scott McCall. They went to the same high school. They hadn’t been that close- Stiles had gone kind of AWOL after his Mom died and hadn’t been in the best place at the time- but the potential for friendship had always been there.

“Scott?” Stiles says, because he has no filter or stalking skills.

They both turn to look at him. Holyshit was that _Derek Hale?_ Entire family burned to death in a fire like, ten _years_ ago Derek Hale? …He was really rocking the motorcycle gang look these days. In a hot way. Like burning. Stiles could feel his brain mushing just looking at him. God, that _everything._

“…Stiles?” Scott looked uncertain. “…from high school?”

“Yeah, dude, fancy seeing you here.” Stiles failed to be a normal person. Seriously, who _says_ that?

“Umm yeah.” Scott attempted to smile like he hadn’t just been in a heated debate. Good job Scott. Then he furrowed his brow in a remarkable imitation of a confused puppy. “…Are you buying pads?”

“Uhh…yeah.” Well now he was. God damn it. Maybe he’d donate them, or something. “Not for myself, obviously. I mean not that there would be anything wrong with that. Except I don’t really need them, since I’m a guy. They’re made for girls, cause they need them once a month. Not that girls _need_ them I’m just assuming it’s better than going without. Probably.” Oh, god, someone stop him.

Typically, they both just stared at him like he was crazy. Which was an admittedly normal reaction that Stiles may or may not get often.

Stiles was saved when a bombshell of a blonde waltzed over.

“It’s true, most girls do have something of a monthly problem. Though I’m sure they’re not the only ones.” She gave him a sultry look.

“Umm, what?” Was that a come on? It made no sense. What? Both Scott and Stoic stiffened. Haha, alliteration…wait, was it some sort of code for something? Stiles hated being confused. All these hot people were making it hard to focus.

“ _Erica.”_ Derek gritted through his teeth pointedly. She sniffed and sauntered over to him. Stiles felt rationally intimidated. She leaned towards him and plucked the package from his hands (Which seriously? When had he picked those up?). Stiles just stared at her dumbly. Until he had an epiphany.

“Wait, Erica _Reyes?_ From Chemistry? Wow, you look _awesome.”_ It was true. Last time he checked, she had chronic epilepsy. As in, kind of impossible to cure. Of course, she could just be on some new meds that didn’t have so many negative side effects.

She _could._

Stiles just didn’t believe it.

She gave him a seductive smile. “I know.” Good for her. Confidence is good.

“We’re leaving now.” Derek growled and gave him a death glare. Which, rude. Stiles was awesome. It wasn’t his fault Derek had issues controlling his…friends? Why was Derek hanging out with a bunch of people six years younger than him?

Wait. Monthly problem? Sudden cure? A very in charge Derek who _growled?_ No way. No _freaking_ way. Yet it made so much sense. Werewolves. _Werewolves._ Everything added up. The reason for the animal attacks from years ago was suddenly clear. Oh, god, Derek’s family probably got taken out by _hunters what the ever living fuck._ Stiles couldn’t stop his jaw from dropping. His brain was racing, he was having _major epiphanies here._

They were all looking at him now. Was that concern in those eyes? Why? Also, why were they having a conversation about the supernatural in the middle of a grocery store? Who does that? Oh right, super senses. His heart was definitely accelerated. He was freaking out. He felt himself starting to breath faster, what should he do _what should he do-_

“Are you guys-” _werewolves._ What, no brain. “In some sort of gang!” Make it a question, a _question._

“Oh my god, are you all doing drugs? Just say no!” Stiles cannot rely on himself. “Is that what the leather jackets are for?”

They were not staring at him with any kind of concern anymore. _Abort, abort!_

Helen from next door turned around the corner. “Stiles!” She smiled. “Are doing your Dad’s grocery shopping?”

_Salvation._

“Hi. Yes. I just realized I have to be somewhere not here, though, so we’ll have to catch up at the neighbourhood barbeque.” Stiles could not get out of there fast enough. In the distance, he could here Helen calling after him.

“Don’t forget to make that vegetarian potato salad! I look forward to it every year!”

On the bright side, Stiles didn’t end up buying the pads. Those things were _expensive._

* * *

 

It takes another week before he’s able to act on his new knowledge, partly because he has no idea what to do with it, but mostly because his Dad is hell bent on spending some family time for Stiles’ visit. It’s pretty justified, because Stiles visits not nearly often enough, too busy with his degree and his own supernatural issues back at Berkeley. It’s enough that he feels guilted into two family game nights and one supper of chicken wings, regardless of cholesterol levels (He recovers by cooking spinach rich food for the next three days, to the dramatic sighs and resignation of his father). It’s not until there’s another missing person and his Dad is called in to overtime that Stiles forces himself to kick it into high gear. Something is going to give soon, and Stiles needs to be prepared.

He decks himself with subtle armour, a protection charm here, a pouch of mountain ash there. He has a couple of knives that can pretty much injure anything, half iron and half silver, soaked in holy water and wolfs bane. He makes his way to the warehouse at three am.

It’s silent, and creepy, but that almost goes without saying. The magic charge to the air leaves a metallic taste on Stiles’ tongue. He slinks towards the warehouse. First, he’ll line the outside of the building with mountain ash, to keep the wolves out. Then he’ll distract the witches with a flash spell and then mess with the pentagram so it absorbs the power of the castor. He only needs to change a few symbols and dump some carnation petals on it to incapacitate every witch connected to the spell. Simple, effective, and incredibly dangerous. Stiles has the inkling feeling that it’s incredibly stupid of him to do this alone.

He doesn’t even get the chance to open the mountain ash pouch. He’s in an alley beside the warehouse when he walks right into a carefully laid entrapment spell, which he _would_ have been able to sense if he wasn’t choking on that magical electric charge already. The spell freezes him in place and makes him feel dizzy.

“Well, look at the little mouse we caught.” A beautiful woman melts out of the shadows. Stiles can barely focus on her, everything seems to be getting a little blurry around the edges.

“I’m more of a cat person, actually.” He manages to croak out.

She chuckles lowly. “Oh, are you still conscious? That spell is supposed to knock you out immediately. Looks like you’re not a random passerby after all.” She tuts sadly. “Shame. You’re a cutie.” Everything thing goes black as Stiles decides now is a good time to pass out.

 

* * *

 

 

When he comes to, he’s tied to a chair in the middle of the warehouse. Stiles groans at the pathetically cliche setting. Then he groans again because his head feels like it's housing construction workers. Not even the hot kind. The old, fat sweaty guys with the outdated haircuts and grimy beards.

Getting knocked out with magic? Not a pleasant experience. This was almost worse than the massive hangover Stiles got after that one New Year’s party. God, that was an awesome party. Stiles can’t remember anything after the piñata-body-shot segment but until then he had an alcohol-induced blast. Even the morning after wasn’t too bad, he had woken up to waffles and eggs and everyone left in the house sat around bemoaning their hangovers and cuddling while guzzling coffee.

Stiles looks around. The pentagram is about ten feet to his left, the door must be behind him, because he can’t see it. There’s a line of people on his far right, Mrs. Kelly included, all seeming to be completely out of it. Their eyes stare blankly forward, disturbingly focused on nothing. From the sun streaming through the skylights of the warehouse, it’s already midday. Stiles has been out for at least eight hours. He shakes himself and starts struggling through the ropes. No telling when the witches will be back, and from the feel of it they’ve disarmed him. He has to get out of here.

He struggles for what seems like an eternity, but is probably only an hour or so when he hear voices. He strains to hear, and recognizes the woman from last night.

“-can’t ignore the Sheriff’s son being kidnapped, the police department is going crazy! What do we do with him? It’s only a matter of time before they check out the warehouse district. The Sheriff is getting search warrants for everything but the goddamn Catholic church!”

Stiles winced. He had been trying to keep his dad _out_ of this, not drag him deeper _in_.

“Use your brain. There’s more than just us in this town, we aren’t the only ones who want to avoid that kind of attention. The little pups have no choice but to come to the rescue now, they’ll find us before the police do. And we’ll be waiting.”

The warehouse door creaks open.

“Oh, look who’s awake.” Devil-woman coos as she walks around to face him. She’s pretty, in a ruthless, I’ll-eat-your-face-for-power kind of way. “Sorry the accommodations aren’t up to par, we had to make do.”

Were they pretending to be cordial? Stiles could do that.

“Oh, no, it’s fine I understand. Can’t be easy to find a decent, affordable place to keep your _drugged up hostages while you make elaborate murder plans.”_ Or maybe not.

She gives him a razor blade of a smile, narrowing her eyes.

“It’s necessary. Sacrifices have to be made for the good of the coven.” Suddenly, other people start pouring into the warehouse behind her.

“Having a party? Can’t say I appreciate being invited.” Stiles gives his most impressive sneer, because this isn’t his first rodeo, and it’s definitely not the first time he’s been forced to ride through bravado alone.(This metaphor is actually not a metaphor, he’s been in an actual rodeo and it was only determined bravado that kept him on that bull. Also a lot of unnecessary screaming.)

“Oh, don’t worry. In fact, you won’t have to worry about anything at all pretty soon.” Someone behind him snickered darkly. Not entirely reassuring. Stiles had an awesome comeback about idealistic cartoon villainy, but someone sprinkles something on him and everything goes black. Again.

 

* * *

 

There was thunder rumbling in the distance. Except it didn’t turn off, just consistently hummed over a background of chanting and snarls of rage. Stiles could taste ash and electricity thick on his tongue. He tried to force his eyes open, fighting the claws of sleep because… it was important, he had something he needed to do. It was like that time he slept past his alarm and woke up panicked because he was missing something _important._ This was harder though, his entire body trying to drag him back to his peaceful slumber.

 _It won’t be peaceful._ Stiles thought viciously to himself. The chanting was like white noise, lulling him into sleep... The thunder grew louder, bordering on a roar. It sounded angry, a stream of potent rage filling Stiles' ears and mind, crowding out the chanting. His eyes snapped open and he gasped in deep gulps of air. He felt as though he had been running miles through a dense fog, only to trip and fall into a crystal-clear, freezing cold river, water rushing around his ears and eyes.

The room was lit only by the glowing green pentagram sprawling along the floor. Surrounding it were dark figures. The witches, all connected and intoning an incantation, causing power to surge and climb. Stiles forced it as annoying white noise to the back of his head. Trapped in the middle of the circle, trying to fight glowing chains attached to the pentagram, was the source of the power. The Alpha, Derek Hale. His eyes glowing red, his thunder-growls growing desperate. Surrounding the area was several leather wearing figures, all writhing on the ground in obvious pain _._

_They were draining the packs power through the Alpha._

Stiles knew, in theory, that this was what the witches had been aiming for, but seeing such powerful people forced into helplessness was horrifying. It made something sick churn in his gut. He grit his teeth. No one was paying any attention to him. He tested the ropes and sighed. They were tight, and he didn’t have time to loosen them. He chewed his lip and looked around…There! There was a cross bow-arrow included-next to a girl who seemed to be out cold. Stiles spared a moment of concern and confusion at a hunter in this fold, before scooting his chair over.

He started as the chanting got suddenly more intense and the growling got weaker. The real draining was starting now. Stiles didn’t have a lot of time. He scooted faster, until he was right beside the bow. He tipped himself onto his side, _ouch,_ back facing the bow, and carefully stretched his fingers to grip the arrow. He somehow managed to free it from the cross bow, and twisted it around to saw through the rope. Pitiful cries could be heard faintly over the deafening chanting, and Stiles nicked himself as he finally got through. He couldn’t shake the ropes off fast enough, and he stumbled to his feet. Pins and needles shot through his arms and feet, and Stiles barely resisted crumpling to the ground.

He sucked in a breath of charged air, then grit his teeth as he staggered toward the circle. Magic theories and plans whirled though his mind, and he dug the mountain ash out of his pocket as he decided what to do.

Pentagrams were not easy to break. Especially not while linked to the power of an entire coven of witches. However, the connection that made them more powerful gave way to a bit of vulnerability. If, for example, an outside source could wriggle in their own connection, and simply _adjust_ the pentagram, they could attack the entire coven with just one well-placed magical kick. It would take a lot of raw power, though. Not to mention crazy control. Stiles wasn’t sure he could do it when he was at his best, let alone after being in a magic-induced stupor for the past god-knows-knows-how-long. He bites his lip as he contemplates, standing just on the edge of the circle, staring at the backs of the inhuman figures. One weak attempt at a growl-nearly a whimper- decides it for him. He has to succeed. That’s all there is too it.

Stiles drops to his knees and holds his nicked hand over the pentagram. He pours a small stream of mountain ash in a pile on one of the symbols made to solidify the barrier. Then he lets a drop of his blood, heavy with his will, fall onto the pile. The change is immediate. He feels a rush of magic not his own surge into his body. The blood has seeped through the mountain ash, staining it red, and forcing it into movement. The mixture seeps along the symbols and lines of the pentagram as Stiles begins his own chant. He wrenches control from the figure right in front of him with a harsh pull. The other witches gasp, finally realizing whats happening.

“No! Stop!” Someone screeches. “Are you _insane?!”_

 _Too late!_ Stiles thinks, with all the maturity of a maliciously gleeful child. He breathes, and concentrates on directing the power towards himself. This is the dangerous part, and why he may actually be insane. This much concentrated power, along with feral werewolf Mo-Jo, all in the hands of one person? Well-

“ _You'll get blown to bits_!”

Gruesome, but completely possible. Stiles breathes. The surge of power is immense, and it _just keeps coming Jesus fuck-_ Stiles forces his breath steady again, accepting the surges. They run under his skin like electricity, and make his fingertips tingle. A burning sensation, like muscles being over-worked, overwhelms him, but Stiles keeps himself steady. His nails dig into his sweaty palm.

Breathe in.

 

Breathe out.

 

 

Breathe in

 

 

 

Out

 

 

 

 

In

 

 

 

 

 

 

Out

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Out

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Confident in his control, Stiles sucks the remaining energy from each individual witch as he breathes in. He doesn't see them sink to their knees and then pass out. He doesn't need to. He can feel every life source in the room, the room thrumming with power-power from _him_ \- he feels heady and giddy. Like being drunk but _so much better._ Stiles _wants it._ All the things he could _do-_

He breathes out slowly, gently carving a pathway for the power to be absorbed by its rightful owners. He feels it seep away, and exhaustion takes it's place. Stiles struggles to make sure his own power remains firmly inside himself, and once that's all that's left, he cuts the pathway and gratefully slides to the ground, unconscious for about the millionth time in two days.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up infinitely more comfortable than he was last time, but equally unsettled. Nothing like that hospital smell. Never gets old.

He feels fine, and he needs to call his dad, so Stiles pushes gracelessly off the bed. Then tries to hold on to it as he promptly slides to the ground as a wave of dizzying exhaustion hits him. An unpleasantly familiar sensation, commonly known as 'Stiles, you idiot, you've overtaxed your magical ability there are limits for a reason you've pushed yours so hard you actually have no power left at all, congratulations!'

He's just getting enough breath back to drag himself back to the merciful pillows when the door opens. Stiles looks up, directly into some very intense eyes glaring at him. They're very pretty. And angry. Stiles can't figure out which colour they are, hazel? Kind of bluish greenish brown? Stiles isn't sure how long he sits on the floor, staring into The Eyes. It must have been a while, because someone (which, since when is someone else there?) clears their throat delicately. Stiles snaps his attention towards...Erica? He looks back towards The Eyes. Derek Hale?

Stiles doesn't get to think about that for to long, because his Dad bursts through the door (and by default the leather club currently blocking it).

“Stiles!” His expression is twisted with worry and Stiles feels a stab of guilt.

“Heeey, Dad,” Stiles attempts a reassuring grin, but no one seems to buy it. This may be influenced by his current positioning on the floor.

“Do you have any idea how long you were out for?” This appears to be a rhetorical question, because his Dad continues on. “Three days! The doctors were talking about a _coma!”_ His Dad's breath catches on the last word, and Stiles feels a fresh wave of guilt.

“Dad I-Dad I'm okay, it's okay-” Stiles doesn't get to finish before he's enveloped in a hug.

"I know." His Dad takes a shuddering breath and pulls away slightly. Then he gives Stiles his patented dissaproving look. It's very frown-y. "Now, what do you think you're doing, getting out of bed, exactly?"


End file.
